


fugere

by connorswhisk



Category: The Fugitive (Movies)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Sexual Tension, What are ya gonna do, for a movie starring harrison ford and tommy lee jones, sigh, well this is certainly a thing that i wrote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29895015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/connorswhisk/pseuds/connorswhisk
Summary: Kimble’s jaw tightens. The glint in his eyes reminds Sam of how he’d looked at the mouth of the dam’s pipe: reckless, crazed, and risky, a man prepared to choose between imprisonment and almost certain death and utterly unafraid of either. “This is ridiculous to you, isn’t it? That I won’t stay where my wife was murdered, murdered, and I couldn’t stop it from happening? You think I’m being weak, don’t you, Deputy?”aka Sam and Kimble, after the fact
Relationships: Samuel Gerard/Richard Kimble
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	fugere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hotchswhore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchswhore/gifts).



> i quite literally cannot believe i wrote this.
> 
> the title is the latin infinitive "to flee" - works pretty well with the story, and the word fugitive is derived from it, so.

It’s Sam Gerard’s job to catch criminals, but this is the first time in almost twenty years of work that he’s ever encountered an innocent fugitive.

Contrary to popular belief, framings aren’t as common as the media would have you believe - there’ll be the odd attempt to pin the blame for a murder or a burglary on somebody else, but it’s more often than not half-assed and easily dismissed. The perp will forget something obvious - a fingerprint, a time of day, etcetera, etcetera - Sam and his team will recognize it, utilize it, and they’ll shut it down real quick.

But what happened with Richard Kimble is like nothing Sam’s ever seen before, and he doubts he’ll ever see anything like it again.

Now, Sam’s not a lenient man - never has been, never will be - and he’d hunted after Kimble like a drowning man for a life preserver, done his best with the evidence he had and refused to take no for an answer, how someone of his standing should. He’d chased Kimble in zig-zags across Illinois, losing sleep over the man, Chrissake, and after everything, all the hospitals and fake IDs and one-armed men, he’d turned out to be innocent.

Innocent. The evidence had been stacked against Kimble, and he’d still come out on top.

And Sam doesn’t need to worry about it anymore (or so he keeps telling himself), because Nichols is out and Sykes is in custody and justice has been served. It’s over, and things can go back to the way they were.

He’ll never have to see Richard Kimble’s son-of-a-bitch face again as long as he lives.

But.

It’s just that - going after him for so long had been different, and new, and exciting, and a lot of things without names to them, and it was - was -

Well, it sure as hell was _something._

“I thought you didn’t care,” Kimble had said in the back of the patrol car, eyebrows raised and eyes skeptical.

“I don’t,” Sam had responded, setting his arm down across the seat-backs, and he’d chuckled a little and said, “Hey, don’t tell anybody, ok?”

Kimble had smiled painfully and shaken his head. Sam had signaled the car to get going and wondered if Kimble felt vindicated that he’d cleared his name and avenged his wife, or just plain tired, relieved that it was all over.

They’d given him the option on questioning, offered to drive him home and schedule for a time in the morning, but Kimble had refused, said he’d rather just get it over with.

Two hours later, it’s nearing 1 AM, and as Sam finally closes the file, Kimble puts his head in his hands and sighs heavily.

“I’ll take him home,” Poole offers, pulling on her jacket and yawning. “You have a good night, sir.”

“No, I’ll do it.” Sam stands up and scrubs a tired palm down his face. “It’s nine miles out from your house, Poole, let me take care of it.”

“Sure thing, sir.”

Kimble glances up. The lines of his face give him an exhausted and gaunt appearance. “I thought you didn’t care,” he repeats, and Sam feels a twinge of annoyance.

“Shut it,” he mutters, and leads the way out of the building.

The trip to Kimble’s house is even quieter than the one to the station had been, but that doesn’t surprise Sam, and he doesn’t try for any conversation, instead opting to keep his gaze on the road and his mind on the now-closed case. Kimble, meanwhile, leans his head against the window and shuts his eyes. Sam wonders, briefly, if he’s fallen asleep, but as he comes to a stop on the curb outside his home, Kimble sits back up again and stares out at the darkened house-front.

“Getting out, or what?” Sam asks.

Kimble doesn’t move. “It’s been a while,” he says quietly.

Sam looks away. “Sure.”

“Gerard?” Kimble says.

“Yeah?”

“Walk me up?”

This time, Sam follows Kimble, up the driveway and the steps and onto the front porch. Kimble fumbles for the key in his pocket, sticks it into the lock but doesn’t turn it.

“I…” He slumps slightly, closing his eyes a second time. “I think I might prefer to stay in a hotel tonight. I’m not sure.”

Sam sighs. “Would have been nice to have known that _before_ I drove you all the way out here.”

Kimble shakes his head. “I can’t be in this house. Not after what happened to Helen, I - I’ll have to sell it. Move somewhere different.”

“Whatever you need,” Sam says, checking his watch impatiently. “Come on. Let’s get you a room at the Hampton downtown.”

Kimble turns to him, slowly. “You think I’m being stupid.”

Sam shrugs. “To tell you the truth, I don’t give a horse’s ass where you sleep, doc.”

Kimble’s jaw tightens. The glint in his eyes reminds Sam of how he’d looked at the mouth of the dam’s pipe: reckless, crazed, and risky, a man prepared to choose between imprisonment and almost certain death and utterly unafraid of either. “This is ridiculous to you, isn’t it? That I won’t stay where my wife was murdered, _murdered,_ and I couldn’t stop it from happening? You think I’m being weak, don’t you, Deputy?”

Sam rolls his eyes, irritated (he can’t help himself). “Look, Kimble, it’s late. I’m tired, you’re tired. You haven’t been home in a hell of a long time. Why don’t you try and spend the night here, yeah? One night, see how you feel. You never know; you might be all right, after all.”

Kimble glares, expression full of white-hot fury. “ _I wouldn’t stay here if you paid me,_ ” he spits, clenching his fists at his sides. “Not for all the money in the world.”

Sam sneers back at him, stepping forward slightly, pulse pounding in his ears. “Not that you’d need any of it, you rich son of a- “

Kimble grabs Sam forcefully by the shoulders and slams him back against the pretentious mahogany door, succeeding in knocking Sam’s head back against the wood and making him bite his tongue. Sam grunts slightly from the pain, feeling a small gush of warm, metallic blood trickle down his throat, but he hardly notices - Kimble, the Kimble he _knows,_ is back, and he’s shaking Sam’s body and saying, “ _Shut your goddamn mouth, Gerard, swear to God, I’m not going to prison again for killing you._ ”

There’s a moment where Sam stares into Kimble’s frenzied face and considers laying a good one across his mug, breaking his nose with a satisfying _crack_ and leaving the blood spurting all over the porch’s dusty white planks _._ It sure seems like Kimble’s thinking likewise.

But.

They both move at the same time - Sam starts to make a fist and Kimble shifts his stance - and instead of hitting each other, Sam’s fist clenches around the lapels of Kimble’s jacket, and Kimble leans forward sharply, and then it’s just a lot of movement and breathless panting and the angriest kissing Sam’s ever done in his life.

“ _You never shut the fuck up, do you?_ ” Kimble growls, pinning Sam’s shoulders down harder, and Sam nips at Kimble’s top lip and fires back, “ _You’re a sorry bastard, you know that?”_

Kimble leans away slightly and shifts, bringing their hips together and hissing at the contact. Sam takes the opportunity to tighten his grip on his jacket and attack Kimble’s lips again, hungrily and angrily and hotly and so so _much_ \- Kimble’s tongue finds its way into Sam’s mouth - Sam bites down hard on Kimble’s lip and elicits both blood and a lovely groan - Kimble returns the favor and brings his hands up to Sam’s hair, pulling hard, forcing a low and rumbling sound from the bottom of Sam’s lungs - he moves his hips faster, harder, faster, _harder_ _-_

And then, just as suddenly as it began, it ends. They pull away from each other, breathing heavily. Sam pushes off of the door and Kimble wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and they both swallow and stare at each other for minutes, hours, days.

And Sam smooths down his hair, clears his throat, and says, “Hotel?”

Kimble reaches for the key still wedged in the knob, slips it back into his pocket. “Hotel,” he agrees, and he nods.

They head back to the car, neither of them in the lead, back to another silent ride charged with things best kept in the dark.

When they pull up to the Hampton, Kimble inclines his head towards Sam, briefly, opens the door, and walks into the lobby, leaving Sam behind with a desperate hard-on and a thousand questions swimming around his head.

He watches Kimble book his room at the front desk, watches him collect his key and head for the elevator, watches him until he can’t watch him anymore.

Sam Gerard drives himself home, quietly, and spends the night thinking about a lot of things.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is dedicated to kate and allie because they made me watch the fugitive and here we are <3 thanks (?) guys ily


End file.
